


it takes two (to break an arm)

by eddie_kaspbraks



Category: IT (2017), IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), M/M, Prompt Fic, aint nothin wrong with that, and stan is a bit of an idiot too, but thats okay bc stan loves him anyways, he neutralizes everyone elses brain cells, richie is a bit of an idiot, richie is just doing his best he cant help that hes stupid, this is just two idiot boys in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-17 02:56:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21047150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eddie_kaspbraks/pseuds/eddie_kaspbraks
Summary: Stanley Uris may or may not be responsible for breaking his boyfriend's arm.Or, stozier + "how did you get your arm stuck in there again?"





	it takes two (to break an arm)

“How did you get your arm stuck in there _again?_ Richie, you _know_ that vending machine doesn’t work.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I know that _now_,” Richie retorts, as if he’s got any sort of dignity left to defend. It’s hard to believe he has, when he’s literally sprawled on the floor with his arm wedged nearly halfway up the vending machine.  
  
Stan scoffs. “So you just, what, forgot since last week, when you got your hand stuck the first time?” he asks, and Richie shoots him a withering look. Stan really has to grin- Richie’s an idiot, but he’s a lovable one.   
  
“I’m having a _really_ bad day, Staniel!” Richie whines. “Don’t be mean to me; I just wanted a fucking Reeses.”   
  
And then Richie sniffles, like he might actually cry. Stan kneels down beside him, tilts his head to the side so he can observe the way Richie’s got his arm._ It’s worse than it was last time,_ Stan thinks; Richie’s managed to twist his arm inside the machine nearly to his elbow.   
  
“You have no idea how long it took me to get my phone outta my pocket,” Richie laments, but Stan doesn’t pay him too much attention. He’s too busy, peering into the tray to figure out what the hell his boyfriend has done this time. “And it took yuh-”  
  
“How do you have your arm_ bent_ like that?” Stan interrupts suddenly. It extends at an angle Stan hasn’t ever noticed before.   
  
The question catches Richie off guard. He’s been focused on rambling about how long it took Stan to rescue him, as if he hadn’t had to leave work three hours early to come help Richie’s ass.   
  
“Oh. I’m double jointed.”   
  
“That’s freaky,” Stan tells him, and Richie just shrugs.   
  
Stan takes hold of Richie’s forearm, attempts to straighten his arm so it’s not angled so precariously, but when Richie exhales sharply, Stan lets go.   
  
“Stanley?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“My arm really fucking hurts,” Richie says, and Stan turns to study his face. He’s got his eyebrows knit together, and Stan supposes he’s not exaggerating. He turns again, to pay closer attention to Richie’s arm, and Stan suspects Richie’s probably cutting off his circulation too.   
  
“And I’m horny,” Richie continues. “And I think it’s turning me on. And I swear to God, if you break my arm-”  
  
Stan rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to break your arm.”  
  
But Richie keeps talking, louder, to drown him out. “And if you break my arm and I can’t jack off-”  
  
“If I break your arm, I’ll jack you off myself,” Stan tells him. “Just shut up so I can figure out how to avoid that.”  
  
And surprisingly, for once, Richie quiets down, without any further quips. Stan figures his arm must really hurt.   
  
Stan pushes on the tray door, tries to force it open just a little more. If he can get Richie an extra half inch, it’ll offer Richie all the space he needs to pull his arm free.  
  
“Wait! Stan, that’s perfect- hold it there,” Richie says, even though Stan clearly has every intention of doing so, and totally doesn’t need to be told.  
  
But then Richie shifts around, and proceeds to stretch his arm further into the machine.   
  
“Richie, what the fuck!”  
  
“Stan, I_ told_ you! I’m having a bad day!”   
  
“Richie, stop! Your elbow isn’t gonna fit in there!” Stan stresses, but Richie manages it, manages to just barely graze the package of his stupid fucking Reeses with his fingertips.   
  
“Stan, just fucking hold it! One more second, it’s no big deal!” Richie snaps, and that’s when Stan pries his fingers around Richie’s upper arm, then shoves down with all the force he can manage. The last thing Stan wants is to call the fire department so they can free the fucking dumb love of his life from a fucking vending machine.   
  
But grabbing Richie’s arm also causes Stan to lose his grip on the tray door, and it slams, hard, against Richie’s elbow.   
  
_“Fuck!” _ And then Richie starts to cry.   
  
Stan’s hands shake as he lifts the door back open. All he hears is Richie’s ragged breaths and swallowed sobs, and all he sees is Richie wince when he pulls his arm free.   
  


* * *

  
Stan’s been sitting in the emergency room waiting area for the past half hour.   
  
Or, twenty seven minutes, technically.  
  
Stan sighs.   
  
If Richie weren't such an idiot, Stan wouldn't even be leaving work yet. And if _Stan _weren't such an idiot, he and Richie would be walking home from the convenience store just a block away from their apartment duplex. Richie would've gotten the king sized Reeses, and also would've conveniently left his credit card at home.   
  
__But instead, I had to break his damn arm.  
  
Stan checks the clock on the wall, then compares it to the time displayed on his phone's screen. It hasn't even been a minute since he last checked. He stands, then crosses the room to the receptionist's desk.   
  
"Do you have a vending machine?" Stan asks. It's _really_ the least he can do.   
  
The nurse smiles. "There's one down the hall on the left, located by the water fountains. We also have a food court on the lower floor-"  
  
"Thanks," Stan interrupts. "The vending machine is fine."  
  
And the vending machine _is_ fine. It works, for one thing, and it has Reeses, and when Stan feeds in a dollar bill and presses _D4_, two packages fall into the retrieval tray. Compensation, Stan presumes, for everything Richie’s had to go through.   
  
Once Stan makes it back to the waiting area, Richie is standing in the center of the room, spinning in a slow circle. Stan watches from the hall entryway, and Richie turns once, then twice, halfway through a third when his gaze falls on Stan. When he grins, Stan crosses the room.   
  
Richie meets him halfway.   
  
Stan notices the sling more than anything else; it holds Richie’s splinted right arm close to his chest. A broken elbow, and it’s Stan’s fault.   
  
“Richie,” Stan says, hesitantly. He fumbles with the strap that runs over Richie’s shoulder, the one that holds Richie’s sling in place, even though it doesn’t need adjusting.  
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“I broke your arm.”  
  
“I know,” Richie says. “I__ noticed.”  
  
Stan glances up, to study his face, to see if he’s got any trace of anger in his expression. But all Stan notices are left-over splotches left by tears that have left Richie’s cheeks pink and the trace of a smirk ghosting Richie’s lips.   
  
“I’m sorry,” Stan continues, but Richie just shrugs. Then, Stan remembers the Reeses, and he pulls them from his jacket pocket. “I got these while I was waiting.”  
  
Richie barks out a laugh, but he takes them anyway. Nearly drops them too. He places one pack inside the sling, and then fumbles with the other, attempting to open it with the limited use of his dominant hand.   
  
“Yeah, this ain’t gonna cut it,” Richie says, and he hands Stan the Reeses so that Stan can open them for him.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re giving me something better.”  
  
“Fuck you,” Stan grumbles, but he smiles anyway.  
  
Richie grins. “Yeah,” he says. “Something like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on my tumblr, richie-kaspbraks


End file.
